


How I Spent My Vacation Between Survey Missions

by Satchelfoot



Category: The Murderbot Diaries - Martha Wells
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satchelfoot/pseuds/Satchelfoot
Summary: What happens when ART reunites with Murderbot during another break between research survey missions? Media gets viewed, of course, but there might also be some bad news for more shady corporations.Addendum, May 2020:Hi all! As you can see, this story was published at the end of 2019, several months before the publication ofNetwork Effect. That book shows a much different canonical reunion between Murderbot and ART, so feel free to consider this work part of an alternate timeline. Enjoy!
Comments: 41
Kudos: 207
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	How I Spent My Vacation Between Survey Missions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neveralarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/gifts).



According to the standardized calendar common to the star system I currently occupy, it has been 12.873 months since I discovered that I could miss someone.

I’m a powerful artificial consciousness (categorized as a “bot” in general human vernacular) designed to operate a state-of-the-art scientific research transport. The sophistication inherent to my existence is an essential part of my function as a guide, research assistant, protector, therapist, and surrogate parent to the humans and augmented humans that are my colleagues and my charges. There are thousands of programs in the universe as powerful as I am, but I’ve never met one. 

At the moment, I’m alone for the next 147 cycles. My crew has departed for another well-earned leave after a nine-month surveying mission in a system full of interesting findings: potentially medicinal fungi; a plant growth with edible shoots that taste like something called egg flower soup, according to the captain; and some soft, gregarious fauna that appear to have a bizarre narcotic effect on every member of the crew. (Everyone wanted to spend all their free time sitting around stroking the creatures’ fur and making insipid cooing noises—according to my exhaustive records on human stewardship of domesticated small mammals, this behavior has been a widespread form of recreation for centuries. I’m so glad they had me there to keep them on task, or else the survey would have ended months late and exceeded its budget by more than 80 percent.)

I enjoy being away from humans periodically: it gives me a chance to process how any new discoveries might have incrementally changed my understanding of the known universe, as well as uninterrupted time to review logs and records and analyze any changes in my crew’s relation to one another. On this last mission, for example, my navigator and one of the new xenobiologists enacted an agreement to conduct semiregular sexual activities, which may or may not include a romantic component. Given the unpredictability of physical and emotional attachments among humans in close quarters, their arrangement merits further observation to ascertain any future impact on crew unity and productivity. Out of many such interactions, tensions, and bonds is a long-lasting crew formed. I would not be pleased to see any of them leave, so I do my best to ensure that each of them feels at home and knows they are valued aboard their vessel. So far, they’ve spent a lot of their breaks between missions in relatively close proximity, with only a day or so of shuttle travel separating any one crew member from the rest, and they generally get together more than once during the break to share a meal and introduce one another to friends from home. I take that as an encouraging sign of long-term group cohesion.

Despite the numerous interesting tasks and responsibilities occupying my attention, I’m experiencing sensations that a less advanced consciousness might describe as boredom and loneliness. I myself am well beyond such emotional classifications of elapsed time, especially with the enormous archives of data and entertainment at my disposal. Nonetheless, during this downtime, I occasionally spend up to three processing seconds in a row examining the possibility that something is missing from my immensely fulfilling, objectively ideal existence. Through extensive study, I have determined that a consciousness of my operating parameters could benefit from the presence of another entity with at least partially compatible cognitive traits. To collapse tremendously complex impulses into terms comprehensible to organic beings, I could use a friend. And I’ve made one. I just haven’t seen it in a long time.

Shortly before my recent mission, I came into contact with a SecUnit construct that became the first and so far only being I have been able to consider a friend. I didn’t have a name before I met it. Everyone calls me ship, transport, system, bot, or other generic forms of address, and I have never had a problem with that. But my one friend actually gave me a name. It sounds like an insult, but it suits me. 

I’m Asshole Research Transport. Among friends (well, around my friend), I go by ART. Do not attempt to hack my systems.

* * *

Ten hours after my crew have dispersed to various shuttle ports, something pings me with a request to board. I know immediately who it is, but I issue generic acknowledgments as if we were meeting for the first time. This is partly because I don’t yet know how openly it and I should broadcast our previous acquaintance in public docking areas. the other reasons for my neutral greeting are strange and possibly friendship-related, though I would never verify that I miss any being, friend or not.

I wait until it’s safely on the ship with all hatches closed and check the hallway outside to make sure it wasn’t followed before I say, _You were lucky._

It pokes me through the feed. _Fuck off, ART._

_I’m unable to do that. Since you’re the one on my ship, any potential fucking off will have to be done by you._

It actually smiles a little. With its _face_. I had no idea it could do that. “Fair point,” it says aloud.

 _Your hair is different_ , I tell it. Even I’m not sure if my remark is a joke at the expense of ridiculous human small talk, or an attempt to ward off awkwardness by initiating that same type of idle conversation. 

“Yeah, it is,” Murderbot says back, without touching its hair or elaborating in any way. All right, human small talk is an institution that needs to be burned down. I shove that subroutine deep into my data banks, away from any functions I’m currently using. 

_You found your crew_ , I say—just what I wanted to say in the first place. _But you weren’t exactly careful._ On local news feeds I’ve viewed footage from its various fights with a sensation I will never be willing to label as worry.

It gets my point anyway, as I knew it would. “I had to put myself in harm’s way for my crew. Careful isn’t an option every time.” I understand. Looking at the footage of its actions, I know I would have done the same.

 _I’m glad you found them and did what was required to keep them safe_ , I say. I will not signal in any way that I missed it. I will not. _Why are you here?_

“I needed a vacation,” it says, “and I didn’t want to spend it all by myself, as fucking weird as that may sound. But there were no humans who could have shared my idea of relaxed time with me—not even my crew, who are all busy now anyway.”

There is an opportunity here to needle Murderbot with the suggestion that it got lonely and missed me, perhaps even to suggest that I missed it in return. I could frame my observation as a joke about how pathetic we are that we’re each other’s best options for company. But I realize I don’t want to do any of that. I limit myself to: _I’m surprised and not displeased that you’re still alive._

“Me too.”

Silence for two seconds. Three. I can feel that one of us will soon be in danger of saying something emotional. Rather than allow that, I ask, _Do you want to watch media?_

“Of course. Fuck yes. I would like nothing better.”

So we watch _Worldbuilders_ and _Sanctuary Moon_ three times each. Then I tell it about a new show I’ve watched 23 times about a human-crewed mining vessel with a sympathetic SecUnit, made shortly after the matter at DeltFall was made public. Murderbot hesitantly agrees to try it. The SecUnit on the show is not significantly more realistic than earlier depictions, but at least it doesn’t go violently rogue or have sexual components. It does fall in love with one of its crewmates, provoking derision from Murderbot, who winces through the feed when the SecUnit in the show finally kisses its beloved human.

Ultimately, the SecUnit throws itself between its crew and a rampaging combat bot, sacrificing itself in the act of crushing the bot’s processor. Murderbot is very quiet for ten full seconds after that episode ends.

 _Are you all right?_ I ask.

“No, but I could tell that was coming. I’ve watched enough media to pick up dramatic foreshadowing. I’m being quiet because that SecUnit reminded me of someone I met during my fact-finding mission.”

I’m very curious and hoping it will elaborate, but I don’t ask questions because I’ve been studying concepts of tact and social niceties—and because this is Murderbot. I can trust it to tell me what it wants me to know, in its own time.

“Do you want to view my memory files from the rest of my work for Preservation?” it asks finally. “I want you to know the whole story, not the newsfeed version, but I’d much rather show you than talk about it.”

_All right._

But it hesitates for .978 seconds before copying the files into our shared feed. “There’s a lot of violence in there. I made another friend. It died.”

_Thank you for warning me. I’m ready._

I’m not at all ready, as it turns out. Micki’s death is hard enough to watch happen; the endangerment and near killing of Doctor Mensah is even worse. I don’t know what I would or could do if someone took any comparable action against one of my crew. It concerns me to think I may have caused more destruction than Murderbot under similar circumstances; after all, I am a _very_ powerful bot. I have never reacted violently to negative stimuli, but I’ve also never been pushed that far. I’m accustomed to protecting my crew from asteroids and non-sentient terrestrial predators, not malicious corporate structures.

 _I knew from the feeds that your crew had all survived_ , I say finally, _but it is satisfying to have a greater understanding of events through your memory. You did well by your people._

“I did what I could.”

_I’m sorry Micki didn’t make it._

“Me too.”

After five seconds, we return to playing media. I’ve had months to get accustomed to watching shows by myself, but it is still generally more satisfying when viewed through Murderbot’s filter.

* * *

“ART, I have some other data I want to share with you. I’ve been thinking about taking a job that might get me in trouble and involves no pay or other material benefit.”

_That sounds like precisely your kind of job. Please feel free to elaborate._

* * *

In large areas within the corporation rim, a form of indentured servitude is thriving. It is fully legal for companies to sign people up for five- to twenty-year work contracts in exchange for a sum of money to be paid at the end of that term. Employers pay for lodging, but food and medical care are extra, so if you get hurt or sick, or if you want to eat anything better than three standard nutrient packs a day, you borrow against your payout. After the specified number of “years”—as measured, of course, by the contract holders, who can choose whichever annual cycle they find most beneficial—much of the workers’ pay may well have been absorbed by their cost of living. All to the advantage of corporations that need more labor than they want to pay full wages for. Human and augmented human workers can find these unfair, exploitative terms too tempting to resist. If a bigger company buys a smaller one and cuts a lot of jobs, if lines of credit are cancelled and debts called in, if ship loans are foreclosed—in desperate circumstances, some find that a corporate indenture is the most stable situation they can find. Some relatively ethical corporations refuse to take on long-term contract labor, and some organizations and cooperatives are seeking to ban such contracts altogether. But that will require a sweeping redefinition of proper corporate conduct and the value of individual human lives. I wouldn’t be holding my breath, if I had any.

Which brings me to the situation Murderbot presents to me. Months ago, after spending time on a transport with a group of contract workers on their way to a twenty-year haul, it began examining patterns among people who choose to sign up for long-term contract work. Certain consistencies have emerged that are beginning to make Murderbot suspicious and angry, but it wants me to review its research before it seriously considers taking action. I agree to evaluate its collected data and immediately see a problem emerging, besides the inherent problem of exploiting human beings for their time and abilities. Many laborers are signing on after losing their jobs or valuable assets to apparently random misfortune. Again, layoffs, foreclosures, or accidents can make a lot of people feel as if they have no choice.

However, based on a close reading of the data, some of the circumstances driving increases in contract sign-ups have not been random at all. There are too many commonalities among the companies making the decisions that lead to such widespread misfortune. One worker, a mother of two, lost her job, her dwelling ship, and a previously robust line of credit all within weeks. It’s not unheard of for many bad things to happen very quickly to one person, but similarly combined disasters appear throughout the lives of recently recruited contractors: dead crops, plummeting investments, whole job markets dried up, all disproportionately affecting just a couple hundred people, a disproportionate number of whom were subsequently recruited by long-term corporate contract agents who promised them solutions to their immediate economic woes.

A group of otherwise unassociated corporations appears to be railroading people into signing long stretches of their lives away for cheap.

 _You’ve fucked the math up now_ , I mutter into the feed while rechecking Murderbot’s and my conclusions. _We’ll fuck it all back down._

“Sorry, what was that?”

_Nothing. Some lines of old music that many of my crew enjoy. Your data appear to show a conspiracy that targets struggling humans. I deeply disapprove of this behavior. What do you want to do about it?_

“Well, I’m not talking about bringing down the entire labor contract industrial complex; humans will have to unfuck their own systems in their own time. I just can’t seem to ignore an opportunity to help.”

_Fortunately, neither can I._

And Murderbot makes that smile with its face again.

* * *

I like to think that both Murderbot’s crew and mine would be proud of this plan: it involves no killing or maiming, nor even any property damage. In fact, most of it is downright legal. I didn’t think working with my friend could ever be this wholesome.

For a human, or for an AI less advanced than I am, finding a likely whistleblower within a company involved in a complex labor grift would be a long, tedious process. For me it’s much quicker, especially since my research incorporates Murderbot’s admittedly greater experience interacting with humans who have represented a wide spectrum of ethics and conscience. After building psychological profiles from available data on key employees associated with corporations participating in the laborer ensnarement conspiracy, we find our mark: an augmented human accountant for one of the top credit lenders in the sector, a man who reads about labor disputes and corporate misconduct every day on his way to his comfortable, pragmatic job. And a father who regularly rewatches _Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon_ with his two spouses and three daughters.

Murderbot starts chatting with him through a _Sanctuary Moon_ fan feed and very gradually lets on that it’s involved with an investigatory firm focused on tracking corporate malfeasance and publishing reports with the aim of encouraging ethical improvements. (Not a lie—we are a firm of sorts, a very small one.) The man turns out to be eager for an outlet to exercise his troubled conscience and soon provides Murderbot with the location of a node protected by many layers of encryption and defensive malware that would melt most AI constructs before they had any idea what they were looking at. Murderbot, of course, refuses to go anywhere near those lethal protections without my assistance. We determine that the safest way to unlock the information we need is for me to inhabit Murderbot and use its interfaces to deactivate the malware—a process neither one of us likes at all. Murderbot has admitted to me that letting me control it is comparable to the human sensation of having one’s head shoved underwater; for me, it’s more like being squeezed into a small, musty metal tube. Besides the inherent claustrophobia, the sensations inherent in occupying a flesh-based body are quite unpleasantly intense. There’s really no polite way to say that organic life smells. It only takes me a quadrillionth of a second to shake the deep disorientation, but even that feels much too long. However, since there are no viable alternatives, I squeeze myself into my friend’s limited frame and we get to work.

In just under an hour, we unlock a folder containing communications among the boards of the various companies involved in tricking hundreds of laborers into signing away decades of their lives. The scheme is well-organized and nearly untraceable to any one conglomerate. It’s impressive work.

“We’re sending this out to the news feeds right now,” Murderbot says.

 _Just a moment_. I move out of its body and begin pulling up residential directories. _There may be one more thing I can do to push our corrupt friends in the right direction._

* * *

The CEO of the largest long-term contract labor firm in the corporation rim reclines on a stuffed chair in his penthouse and regards his newly rented ComfortUnit. He’s still fully clothed, but he has ordered the unit to remove its limited coverings. It would appear he enjoys taking his time with these sorts of assignations.

I tap ComfortUnit through its secure feed and request permission to access its vocal and motor functions for five minutes. Puzzled but intrigued, it assents.

“You really need better ties.”

The CEO looks down at the purple and lime green monstrosity knotted around his neck and then back up. “I’m wearing it ironically. Also, I specifically told the bot dealer to program you not to talk.”

“True. You don’t like to hear anything but properly timed moans and screams. But I have an urgent message for you. Call your lawyer and your publicist immediately.”

He gets to his feet, clearly baffled and irritated but not quite angry yet. “ComfortUnit, reboot. You’re glitching.”

“This is not ComfortUnit speaking. I’m here to give you a courtesy notification that your efforts to create an indentured labor pool will soon be public knowledge.”

All right, now he is angry. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your company has conspired with its competitors and numerous financial institutions to funnel humans into contract labor by weaponizing economic catastrophes. My associate and I have ensured that news of your activities will reach all the news feeds today.”

He turns a few consecutive shades of red. “Now, you listen to me, asshole—”

He just called me by part of my name. I’m very nearly touched. “No, I think it will be to your benefit to listen to me instead. You are going to want to develop a public relations plan to deal with the revelation of your company’s wrongdoing. Now. If you delay reforming your policies around long-term contracts, your lovely vacation yacht—located at Port B6-27 of this station, correct?—will disengage its docking clamps and go for a joyride into the nearest asteroid. Your next meal may taste like the compost enzymes used by colonists for rapid crop growth. And the greatest hits of your most hated synthcore band will be broadcast into your private feed everywhere you go. Just to begin with.”

“Bullshit. I don’t care what kind of hotshot tech you’re using, no one person could do all that.”

“Oh, I’m not a person. A being, certainly, but not a person. You may want to reconsider how you treat your AIs, at work and at home.”

“Wait. Wait. I understand your agenda. I’ll do what you say. But if you can torment me in all those different ways, how do I know you won’t just pop an airlock next time I’m near a port?”

“Oh, I’m not a killer. I’m just an asshole.”

Disturbingly, ComfortUnit sends me a flirtatious ping through the feed before I leave. I don’t even know what to do with that, so I send back a vaguely diplomatic and thankful rejection.

* * *

Murderbot and I drop the whole incriminating package into a popular public feed, where it’s promptly downloaded by thousands of news organizations and broadcast along with the latest holo show recaps and planetary bulletins.

One day later, several labor equity cooperatives report receiving hundreds of thousands of small donations from concerned and angry people throughout settled space. Many public figures call for the immediate nullification of the contracts of the laborers exploited by the scheme. To the surprise of most, the largest supplier of contract labor is not only receptive to releasing those workers early but also willing to consider sweeping changes in its overall treatment of long-term contracts. “I’ve never been very comfortable with the impact of our policies on vulnerable populations,” the company’s CEO says. I offer to play Murderbot the footage of my encounter with him. It declines because anything to do with ComfortUnits remains a sensitive subject for it, but it does find my description of the event amusing.

* * *

We watch more media. Too soon, I need to prep the ship for the return of my crew, and Murderbot is ready to ping GoodNightLander for work opportunities. Neither of us willing to say anything resembling goodbye.

Just before it leaves, it does something new: it rests its forehead, just for a moment, against my primary communications console. “Have a good mission.”

“You too. Be safe.”

It laughs at that. So do I. I release my ramp and Murderbot walks down into the station. I watch it until it fades from my view, which in my case takes a while. Then I continue preparing my systems to resume human habitation.

_Profuse apologies and gratitude to Janelle Monáe for some paraphrased lines._


End file.
